The Twelve Days of Christmas
by Mirkwood
Summary: The Amis are being blackmailed. Enjolras tries to uncover the informer, but is mistakenly arrested as a spy. Can he prove his innocence before the informer turns in the rest of the Amis? December 14- Grantaire gives Enjolras an early Christmas present!


Author's Note: This is my first Les Miserables Fanfic! Please read and review. This takes place in Paris and the surrounding areas, and will include all of the Amis, Javert, and possibly Gavroche. I have taken your suggestions, and now M. Dagenais is turning down the lights, while the barkeeper is now M. Lariviere. And Grantaire is CapitAL R. Thanks for reviewing!

Disclaimer: The illustrious Hugo invented Les Mis, and all of the characters contained therein. I am manipulating his characters by writing this story. That manipulation is called fanfiction.

*December 14, 1830*

Louison turned to rail against the late-night customer who casually opened the café door, letting in a gust of wind and rain that curled around her heels and tousled the edges of ragged skirt. Louison was in a foul mood. Her large lip curled distastefully at the unwelcome prospect before her; ten tables and four booths to clean, the counter to polish, the silverware to wash, and the soup pots still to scour. Celestine, like the little skimp of a serving girl she was, had run off a few days ago, and the burden of all her chores had fallen irrevocably to the dishwasher. It was almost closing time, and M. Dagenais would be coming in to turn down the lights shortly, and M. Lariviere would soon be in to lock the door.  The small fire trembled in the hearth as the door flew open wide, and Louison rushed to protect the flame. She turned up her nose at the young visitor, whose expensive garments and quiet demeanor cried out 'aristocrat.'

"Close the door please, those of us who are likely to be here all night would appreciate a little heat!" She rushed over before he could reply, closing the door herself. Rain dripped from his velvet-like overcoat as he tried to shake out the dampness.

*All over my dry floor* she noted with a frown.

The clothes he wore under the coat were no less expensive than the others. Louison frowned deeper; the young aristocrat was wildly out of place here.

"Are you lost?"

He shook his jet-black curls, tossing more water onto the floor. "This is Le Café Musain, right?"

"Right, and you are dripping wet all over my good floor."

"Sorry." He shook his head apologetically. Cold rain in December was something nobody enjoyed. "Can I-"

"We're closed for the night," Louison added hastily, not wishing to add sorrow to heartache. She had enough to do without caring for a city brat.

The boy snorted, unaffected by her chagrin. "You should lock your doors, then. Is Monsieur Lariviere in?" He apparently had had enough of her rudeness. 

Nodding grudgingly, Louison rang for him, and then returned to her table, scowling. She watched the young man out of the corner of her eye, as he removed his damp coat and hung it on a peg beside the door. Wringing out his cap (all over her floor, which was getting wetter by the minute) he approached the café' counter and ordered a glass of mulled wine. M. Lariviere obliged him with a somewhat dubious glance, wondering why the young man seemed so familiar. After a few half-hearted remarks about the wet weather, and the lack of snow, the shopkeeper politely asked if they had met.

"Not that I recall," the young man smiled strangely.

Louison watched him with another frown, as a sudden thought occurred to her. Some of the friendliest, most charming people in the world were the ones that were trying to get something out of you. She had heard of the government sending out officers in disguise to investigate people, and she could not help feeling odd about this young man, whose youthful appearance ready smile, and familiarity all seemed to cry out suspicion. The shopkeeper was polishing a glass; he glanced at his young customer curiously.

"How do you know my name, Monsieur…"

"Chauvelin. Phillip. A friend recommended me to you. He said you have the best wine on this side of the city."

Louison snorted. *A likely story.*

But M. Lariviere blushed with modesty. "How very kind of you, Monsieur Chauvelin." He pushed a glass full of dark liquid across the counter. "Do I have the pleasure of knowing your friend?"

The boy nodded enthusiastically.

"My friend's name is Enjolras."

"Ah! Enjolras. That name I do recall."

"Is he in tonight?"

*Enjolras?* Louison pricked up her ears. *He's one of those students. Why would the spy want to know about him?* 

"No, he hasn't been through for two days, I'm afraid. Perhaps tomorrow. They usually hang out back there, down the hallway." He indicated the small passage.

The man's blue eyes followed his gaze with interest, Louison noticed. Too much interest. "Well, I think I'll have a look back there anyway," the boy shrugged, giving Lariviere a handful of coins. "You can keep the change. Thank you for your time," He added, almost as an afterthought. "Sorry about the floor, Louison." Pushing a few coins across the table, he made for the hallway, laughing at her dark scowl.

The Amis de ABC, minus two, were frequenting their favorite recluse in Paris- the backroom of the Café Musain. Old drinks lay scattered across the table, and the room was lit by the light of a large ceremonious lamp that presided over their current debate. Combeferre glanced anxiously at the door, cautioning the companions to lower their voices.

"Peace, Bahorel, close that crater in your face and listen to me. You're not taking this seriously. You don't understand-"

"I understand perfectly! We're risking ourselves on a completely hoax!"

"How can it be a hoax if everything we try to do keeps getting reported? Someone is keeping them informed!"

"How can we be sure he's even going to listen? What if he decides to squeal again? There's a lot more than money in your little gamble, Combeferre."

"It's not Combeferre's gamble! Everyone is taking a risk. We've waited too long already. You don't know- It may already be too late to do something!"

Suddenly the door to the back room swung open, and Bahorel leapt up from his chair to get out of the way.

"My Enjolras! You're early! How did you get here so fast?"

Combeferre, from his seat on the windowsill, shook his finger menacingly. "Translated: Enjolras, you're very late, and what took so long?"

"I was perfecting my disguise," Enjolras answered calmly, sweeping off his cap to show them the results. His wavy hair, originally colored a golden blonde, had been transformed to the deepest of blacks. He had neglected to shave also, and the facial hair around his chin and in front of his ears made him look older than the mere nineteen years he was.

"I suspect you achieved perfection long ago," Bossuet retorted. "You're just picky."

"No I'm not. Besides, I wanted to test it on a few people. So I went down to the Place Cambrai, the Rue Saint-Jean-de Beauvais, the Courgourde, the University-"

Courfeyrac laughed suddenly, interrupting him. "My, you have been around, haven't you? I guess we can forgive you for being late, as long as you were being careful. How did your experiment go?"

"M. Lariviere and Louison didn't even recognize me."

"Excellent. Then there's no reason to believe the police will either."

"I hope not. Do you have the letter and the money?"

"Right here." Combeferre handed him the envelope, and a small, black bag. "This is all of it. How long do you think it will take?"

"Probably three days. If our predictions are correct the location should only be about 30 miles out of the city."

"But you're not factoring in the time it will take to locate him," Feuilly spoke up for the first time. "It could be more."

"Four days then," Bahorel shrugged. "That should be enough. It's a small town."

"How will we find out how it went?"

Courfeyrac turned to answer Joly's question. "Enjolras is going to meet us back here four days from now, at dusk. Don't be late."

"What if you don't come back?" Joly persisted, glancing at Enjolras. "What then?"

The student looked perplexed, as if the thought had never bothered him.

"What if something happens to you?" Joly repeated.

"What if something happens to who?"

The students whirled almost simultaneously- Grantaire had entered without any warning and was leaning against the doorpost. He glanced around innocently.

"What if something happens to who?"

"Nothing's going to happen to anybody," Enjolras answered quickly. He tried to ignore the man's curious stare. 

"Enjolras," Grantaire said slowly, "What in the world did you do to yourself?"

Recalling his strange appearance, Enjolras tried to calm him. "Nothing much."

"_Nothing much?" _Grantaire repeated in disbelief. "What are you doing, joining the secret police?"

"Not exactly."

Combeferre spoke up hastily. "Grantaire, you remember the man from one of the villages, whose been informing on us since September?"

Grantaire nodded suspiciously.

"Well we found out who he is. We're going to make a treaty with him."

Grantaire's face held an unreadable expression. "I'm listening."

Enjolras stood up, preparing to leave. "I'm going to a village 30 miles outside the city to meet him."

"What if you're recognized? What then?"

"That's what the disguise is for, Grantaire."

"Well it's a poor disguise then!" The man snorted, his voice becoming heated. "I recognized you right away."

"You know me."

"So? You're not an easy person to forget." Grantaire folded his arms, his large frame filling the doorway. "This is ridiculous. I won't be party to this insanity."

"I'm not asking for your permission!"

"Why wasn't I informed?"

"Because it doesn't concern you! You're not part of this!"

Snatching up his hat, the bag, and the envelope, Enjolras stormed over to the door.

"I'll be back in four days." He looked over Grantaire with an icy glare. "Goodbye, I'm leaving."

Still blocking the way, Grantaire only smirked at him. "He's in such a hurry," he remarked to Combeferre. "Won't even stay to get his birthday present."

"It's not my birthday."

"Your Christmas present, then."

"It won't be Christmas for twelve days," Enjolras pushed past him and walked into the hallway.

"Take it!" Grantaire insisted. Grabbing his arm, he pushed a small box into Enjolras' hand. "It'll help you be on time."

Without so much as a thank-you, Enjolras pulled away from him and continued down the hallway. He stormed past Louison, who was behind the counter, and M. Lariviere, who wondered what had caused his amiable young acquaintance to leave in such a huff.

Snatching his coat from the hook, Enjolras tucked it into his arm and threw open the door, expecting to be assaulted by a barrage of wind and rain. In his hurry he dropped the little box from Grantaire, and groaning, was forced to retrace his steps to retrieve it. The contents had been scattered across the sidewalk, and he knelt down, letting the bag and envelope slide to the ground. Picking up the package, he removed the broken seal and tissue paper, wondering what horror Grantaire had concocted for him this time. 

He pried the present from its case, holding it up to the light of the streetlamp.

It was a tiny silver watch.

Feeling something on the other side, Enjolras turned it over to look at the inscription, squinting to read the exquisite cursive:

_To Apollo, from Capital R._

He barely refrained from smiling at the nickname, having schooled his face into a blank slate of emotions. But he could not stop the small feeling of remorse that crept into his heart. *I should have thanked him, at least.*

He rarely allowed himself to get so angry at Grantaire, usually the reaction was more of a condescending scorn nature. Shaking his head, Enjolras tried to console himself. Grantaire was always looking for an argument, and since most of the others had no trouble agreeing with him, or ignoring him, he was left with Enjolras, who consistently failed at both. 'Grantaire is impossible' was his motto, ingrained on every aspect of his opinions about the man. *And to think I've barely known him four weeks.* Enjolras shook his head. It seemed like forever.

He shivered suddenly, vaguely wondering why he wasn't dripping wet by now. Looking up at the streetlight again, he discovered the reason.

It was snowing.


End file.
